A Duchess by Midnight (14 page)

“Here,” he said gruffly after bending down and retrieving the towel from the floor. “Cover yourself.”

“Thank you.” In the awkward silence that followed she grabbed the towel and wrapped it tightly around her body, holding it pinned in front of her chest with a closed fist. They both looked in opposite directions, leaving Thorncroft feeling as green and inexperienced as a young school lad as he struggled for the right thing to say.

If only he had never kissed her… for this time he had done more than kiss and he was damned if he didn’t already want to do it all again. It was bewildering, this compulsive need he had inside of him to touch Clara. To taste her. To
know
her, both inside and out. He had never felt like this about another woman before.

Not even Katherine.

He had loved his wife, completely and without question. Of that there was no doubt. Not in his mind nor in the minds of anyone who had ever seen them together. He had loved her quiet nature, her shy smile, the way her entire face lit up whenever he entered the room. And when she died… when she died he thought that love he’d had inside of him had died along with her. But as he looked at Clara he wondered if it wasn’t quite as dead as he’d been led to believe.

“I will leave you to get dressed. A maid will be in shortly to assist you. There are dresses in the armoire” – he nodded towards a heavy mahogany wardrobe standing against the far wall – “and if you need anything else you have only to ask.”

She fiddled with a long coppery curl. “Perhaps we should take a moment and talk about–”

“The doctor will wait for you downstairs in the drawing room,” he interrupted. “Regardless of his diagnosis, you are welcome to stay here tonight. I will arrange a coach to take you anywhere you desire in the morning. Are you hungry?”

“Am I…”

“Hungry,” he repeated when she trailed off. “If you are, dinner will be served promptly at seven o’clock in the dining room. A maid can show you the way.”

It will be easier this way
, Thorncroft decided, ignoring the pang in his gut as he watched the confusion play across Clara’s expressive face.
Easier to remain distant and dismissive than to get too close.

Getting too close meant running the risk of feeling and feeling meant pain and heartache and loss. There was something between him and Clara. Call it a light. Call it spark. Its name did not matter and he would not deny it. But he
would
do everything possible to dim it, for even if he gave in to temptation a third time an irrevocable fact remained. A fact he had chosen to ignore until this very moment.

Thorncroft was a duke and Clara was a servant. A stunningly alluring servant, but a servant nevertheless. There could be no future between them. At least not a future where she was anything but his mistress, shamed in the eyes of society and ruined in the eyes of any man who might have her after he was done.

His hands clenching into fists at the mere
thought
of another man touching her, he abruptly turned and stalked out of the room before he did or said something they would both come to regret.

The doctor was
a pleasant man in his mid-sixties by the name of Mr. Bellows. After examining Clara’s wound and making her stare directly into the flame of a candle while he studied her pupils through the lens of a magnifying glass – something she found most peculiar – he declared her sound of both mind and body, although he did advise several days of rest.

“You never know with these bumps to the head,” he said as he slid his magnifying glass back into a black bag and snapped it shut. “If you experience any dizziness or bright spots in your vision or memory loss, you must send for me at once. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Clara said obediently.

He made a
harrumphing
sound under his breath. “A young, healthy girl such as yourself should not have any problems, but one can never tell. What did you say your name was again?”

“Clara Witherspoon.”

“Witherspoon… Witherspoon…” He scratched his chin. “Why does that sound so familiar? Do you have any family in London?”

“Not that I know of. May I stand up now?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bellows said with an absent wave of his hand. “Do whatever you like. Except for riding. Or excessive walking. Or traveling by coach.” He peered up at her through glasses so thick they gave his watery brown eyes a rather bug-like appearance. “Bumpy things, coaches. Rattle a person’s teeth right out of their head if they aren’t careful. Have a lovely evening, Miss Witherspoon. I will see myself out.”

Waiting until she heard the front door open and close, Clara sprang to her feet and walked briskly across the parlor. Contrary to Mr. Bellow’s warning she felt perfectly fine. Fine enough to hop in a carriage and leave at that very moment if she was so inclined. The problem was that she was
not
so inclined. In fact, she had already made up her mind that she wanted to stay for as long as Thorncroft would have her.

Heavens knew it wasn’t proper and if Lady Irene discovered she was here instead of formally accepting Mr. Ingle’s marriage proposal she would have her head on a platter, but Clara could not ignore the unshakable feeling that this was where she was
meant
to be.

Call it fate. Call it whimsy. Call it luck. All she knew was being kissed once by Thorncroft may have been an accident, but being kissed twice… that meant something. 

She was sure of it.

The devilish man was still trying to pretend he did not feel the same way, but at least now she knew why. Or at least she could give it her best guess. Perhaps he wasn’t yet over the death of his wife. Or perhaps he was afraid of falling in love again. Whatever the reason, she was capable of being patient for as long as it took for him to acknowledge there was something special between them. Something worth exploring. Something worth knowing.

And she wasn’t leaving until she found out exactly what that something was.

“What are we having?”
Clara asked brightly as she stepped into the formal dining room. “It smells heavenly.”

If Thorncroft was surprised by her attendance at dinner, it did not show in his expression. Then again, nothing did. The man was certainly skilled at hiding his feelings. She would give him that. Aside from a faint flicker in the depths of his stormy gray eyes they might have been strangers for all acknowledgement he gave her.

“Miss Witherspoon. I am glad you could join me. Please, be seated.” He rose effortlessly from his chair and walked down the length of the long table to pull out the chair at the opposite end, his footsteps muffled by the thick Axminster carpet.

He had changed into formal attire, Clara noted. Gone was the white linen shirt and dark blue trousers. In their place he wore a crisp cravat secured with a silver lapel pin, a satin waistcoat, a black jacket complete with tails, and tight-fitting breeches that hugged his muscular legs in all sorts of delightful ways. Candlelight flickered across a jaw freshly shaved and he’d styled his hair – or more likely had it styled for him – so it fell on either side of his temple in loose, silky waves.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious in her borrowed dress that had been made for a woman slightly taller and fuller than she, Clara fought the unfamiliar urge to tug at her skirt and tighten the simple coiffure pinned to the nape of her neck. At Windmere she never cared if there was dirt under her fingernails or stains on her clothes. Her stepmother and stepsisters looked down on her no matter how she dressed, which was why she had stopped fussing over her appearance long ago. If she had a smudge of dust on her cheek then so be it. Except now, standing before Thorncroft in a room more elegant and richly furnished than any she had ever stepped in before, Clara could not help but be vividly aware of her shortcomings.

With his tailored clothes and snowy white cravat and boots that had been polished to a high gleam Thorncroft was every inch lord of the manor while she… she was a country bumpkin. There was really no other way to put it.

She sat in the chair Thorncroft pulled out for her and watched as he returned to his own seat some fifteen feet away. With six candelabras between them it soon became apparent that it would be difficult to look at him while they ate dinner, let alone hold a conversation.

Biting her tongue for the first part of the meal – fresh green peas soaked in cream and tiny pink shrimp sautéed in butter sauce – Clara found she could no longer stand the tense silence by the time the third course was brought out. Plucking up her plate of roasted fowl, she marched determinedly to the opposite end of the table and sat directly to Thorncroft’s right, plunking her plate down on the thick linen tablecloth with enough force to lift both of his eyebrows

“Is there something you require?” he asked, pausing with his fork in midair.

“Only a bit of idle chatter. I find dining in silence rather depressing, don’t you?”

He set his fork down on the edge of his plate with a deliberate
click
. “I find dining in silence a welcome respite from being forced to discuss topics which hold little interest with people I could care less about.”

Clara’s bright smile wavered ever-so-slightly. “That is very unfortunate. I often find I have the best conversations with the people I have the least in common with.”

“How wonderful for you,” he bit out sarcastically before he lifted his knife and fork and resumed eating, his gaze locked on the table. 

“Yes. It is.” She was quiet for a moment as she considered the best way to break through the armor Thorncroft had built around himself. It was thick, to be sure, but not impenetrable. Their time together upstairs had shown her that. Beneath the cold, heartless exterior was a man capable of great passion. She only needed to find which strings to pull to set him free.

“Do you want to make love to me?”

Thorncroft choked on a piece of roasted duck.

“What – what did you say?” Eyes watering, he lifted his glass of dark red port and took a long, hefty swallow. Biting back a smile, Clara lifted her glass of water – she’d politely declined any spirits – and spoke over the curved rim.

“I said do you want to make love to me? I only ask because it seemed like you wanted to when we were upstairs, but now you are acting as though we’re strangers.”

“Because we are. And this is
not
a topic of conversation to be discussed over dinner.”

“Then when should it be discussed?” she asked innocently. “Over breakfast? Or perhaps tea?”

“Bloody hell,” he murmured.

“I was only trying–”

“Stop. Speaking,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Raking a hand through his hair he glared at the two scullery maids standing in the far corner. “Leave us,” he ordered. With bowed heads they scurried quickly out the door and closed it behind them. “There.” His glare shifted until it rested squarely on Clara. “At least now we have a little privacy.”

Clara shrugged. “If that is what you would prefer.”

“What I would
prefer
is that we drop this matter entirely and go back to eating in blessed silence.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“And why not?” he demanded.

“Because I haven’t received an answer yet.”

Thorncroft pressed both hands flat on the table. His knuckles were white, betraying the tension that was also evident in the hard line of his jaw and the rigidness of his shoulders. If Clara had to guess, Thorncroft was not a man accustomed to being questioned… about anything. She had never met a duke before, but she had overheard enough conversations between her stepsisters to know that they were generally pompous, self-important men who thought themselves better than everyone else. Thorncroft did not strike her as that sort – arrogant, yes, conceited, no – but she did suspect he wasn’t used to being challenged, especially by a female.

“Yes,” he growled after a long pause. “Yes, I do want to make love to you. I want to peel off your dress and take you right here on this table. I want to lick every inch of you. Kiss every part of you.” His eyes glowed silver. “I want to hear you scream my name as I bury myself in the tightest, wettest part of you and feel your nails dig furrows into my back as you clench around me. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Clara could not breathe. Halfway through Thorncroft’s erotic confession her lungs had simply stopped working, like a fireplace bellow that had been squeezed all the way shut.

“Well?” he demanded. “Is it? Is that what you wanted to hear, Clara?”

“I – I – I don’t know,” she managed weakly. She felt dazed, as though she’d been standing out in the sun for too long. Except she wasn’t in the sun. She was in a dining room sitting beside a man who had just told her wicked,
wicked
things. And heaven help her, she had loved every word.

Clara may have been a virgin, but that did not mean she was ignorant of passion or intimidated by desire. With his drugging kisses Thorncroft had taught her what it felt like to need. What it felt like to want.

She did not know if it was love or lust that drew her to him like a moth was drawn to a flickering flame. But she did know that, like the moth, she was willing to dance a little too close to the fire if it meant being able to feel the heat.

“Of course you do not,” he said with a derisive snort. “You do not know because you are an innocent. You are like a child, playing with things you does not understand.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am not a child.”

“Then who are you?” He leaned closer. The dim lighting cast one side of his face in shadow, making him look more like the nefarious villain in the fairytales Clara had loved as a child than the prince on a dashing white steed. “Who are you, Clara Witherspoon?”

Her fingers clenched reflexively in her lap, digging into the soft fabric of her borrowed dress. How to reply to Thorncroft’s question when she did not know the answer herself? “A simple girl with simple dreams. I want what everyone wants. To feel loved and accepted for who I am rather than who people want me to be.”

She could tell she had struck a chord within him by the way his jaw suddenly clenched, the muscle pulsing high in his right cheekbone. He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, his expression pensive. “I cannot tell if you are telling the truth or spinning a fancy tale to paint yourself in a better light.”

“Why would I lie about such a thing?” Clara asked, confused – and frustrated – by his skepticism.

“Because no one could possibly be that innocent and naïve.”

“And until I met you I thought no one could possibly be so cynical and pessimistic.”

To her surprise, his mouth stretched into something that… if she didn’t know any better… why yes! Yes he
was
smiling and then he was laughing, albeit in a gruff, throaty sort of way that made it sound as though he hadn’t laughed in quite a long a time.

“Do you know you have insulted me more in the past twelve hours than anyone has ever insulted me in the past twenty-nine years? You’re a brave woman, Clara.” His smile faded. “And damned if I’m not more intrigued with you than I have a right to be. Where is your family?”

“My – my family?” she repeated, caught off guard.

“Yes. Your family. Surely you have someone looking after you. Caring for you. Wondering where you are. A mother or a father–”

“Both of my parents are dead.” The words, evenly spoken, were no longer accompanied by a sharp slice of pain but she still felt a twinge in her heart. A twinge that would never go away, no matter how much time passed.

“I am sorry.” There was genuine sincerity in Thorncroft’s tone. The type of sincerity someone could give only when they’d experienced a similar loss. He reached across the table, his palm turned upwards, and after a moment of hesitation Clara lifted her hand and placed it gently on top of his.

They were both quiet for a moment. Clara thought of her father and she imagined (although she had no way to know for certain) that Thorncroft’s thoughts were with his wife and young son. She wanted to ask him about them, but she knew some things – the most important things – had to be freely given. So instead of asking she merely held his hand, her palm pressed against his palm and her fingers curled around his fingers as he fought back the inner demons that haunted him.